


A Lover of the Light

by ReaperWriter



Series: One of the Wonders [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: And Yusuf al-Kaysani, Character Study, First Meeting, I have a lot of feelings about Nicolo di Genova, M/M, Period Typical Homophobia, Pre-Relationship, Siege of Jerusalem, he needs hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaperWriter/pseuds/ReaperWriter
Summary: The world Nicolò grew up in, if he must describe it, was grey. Oh, the sun shone enough in Genova. But it rained frequently as well. And like mainly cities in the lands once ruled by Rome, houses were built on top of shops, with more servants quarters or rooms for let on top of that, three or four floors high. When he ran those streets as a boy, without thinking of it, he could traverse the city from the harbor to the far city gates and never leave the shadows.***The world that shaped Nicolò and the path that led him to a fateful meeting outside the gates of Jerusalem.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: One of the Wonders [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934449
Comments: 5
Kudos: 104





	A Lover of the Light

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote Wrecked Upon Your Shores, I was inspired by Luca Marinelli's eyes. This piece is inspired in part by how Marwan Kensari can light up a room.
> 
> This other part of the inspiration continues to be The Poet and The Hoe, who know who they are. May they always be the Sea and the Light. Be Fae, Do Crimes.
> 
> The title is from the song of the same name by Mumford and Sons

The world Nicolò grew up in, if he must describe it, was grey. Oh, the sun shone enough in Genova. But it rained frequently as well. And like mainly cities in the lands once ruled by Rome, houses were built on top of shops, with more servants quarters or rooms for let on top of that, three or four floors high. When he ran those streets as a boy, without thinking of it, he could traverse the city from the harbor to the far city gates and never leave the shadows.

But more than that, Nicolò’s life was grey in the people around him. A third son, he had most of his attention young from his mother Agata until she died birthing his second sister. His father, Domenego, spent most of his time with Giacomo and Orazio who would take over the business. He left Nicolò and his sister Ilaria to their nurse, a dour woman named Clemenza who spent her time dragging them to church and telling Nicolò he needed to work to save his soul.

And then, when Orazio caught him kissing a fisherman’s son not far from the piers where their father’s ships docked, he was ripped from home and sent to the church at barely eleven years old. To correct him. To give him a course and a career. To drive the demons from him. In the years that followed, Nicolò watched so many people come to Santa Stefano seeking God and joy and holy ecstasy. And all he found there were the grey stone walls of a prison. Of an abbot who despaired of his soul. Of brothers who whispered about him and avoided him, their moodiest brethren. He took his vow, received his ordination, prayed constantly. And yet, never felt farther from God.

So when they called for holy warriors, the abbot was not sad to see Nicolò go. His father outfitted him, glad to be rid of him once and for all. And so he boarded a ship and was gone.

The Holy Land proved by turns burning hot and freezing cold, brown instead of grey. Occasionally, they’d see an oasis, a small splash of green. And then the fighting started, and his world became red and brown, fresh blood and dried, mud made of it mixed with the piss and shit of the dying. No beauty. No peace. Only the hope he might fall and finally, finally be free. To heaven, if the Pope’s words were true. Or hell, if his sins, his unnatural yearnings, were too great.

The first real color Nicolò feels is at the siege of Jerusalem. Wading through the battle, over the bodies of his fellow Christians and the Saracens alike, weary already of the death around him, a flash of bright gold spears him. The helmet is not so different from his own, but trimmed in brass polished to high shine and wrapped around with a scarf dyed in bright saffron yellow. 

It draws his eye, but this is war, so it also draws his sword. They charge each other. As his longsword punctures into the man, Nicolò feels a moment’s regret at the shock in the man’s dark brown eyes. Then his wickedly curved blade finds Nicolò’s own throat and it’s fitting that if he is to destroy such beauty, it also sends him to his long hoped for grave.

The world is grey and dark and cold when Nicolò gasps awake, and he’s been sent to hell. Of course he has, sinner that he is. But it’s over. He’ll endure hell, because he cannot fall further, cannot fail further. 

Coughing a sputtering beside him startles him and he turns to find the man he killed, the gold bright Saracen pushing himself up. Nicolò’s hand goes up, finding his own throat whole. His own blade at hand. 

This is worse than hell. This is life.

He groans in agony, and the man turns, pulling his dagger. On reflex, Nicolò grabs his own. They move, they grapple, the stab. Blood fills his mouth again and he prays that this time, God takes him. That it ends.

It doesn’t end.

They wake, over and over. They fight through the long days of the siege, dying and rising, dying and rising. There is a story in the holy book, of Joshua and God standing still the sun, but this is not that kindness. Sometimes they scrabble in the dark. Sometimes under the burning sun. Nicolò burns and freezes, dies and dies and dies. Kills and kills and kills.

Until the man, his beautiful gold scarf long lost, his helmet knocked aside, stops. He says a word in his language, then in what Nicolò thinks might be Hebrew, and finally in Greek, which Nicolò learned just enough of in the church to understand.

“Enough.” 

This man, whose face is beautiful and no less golden for the loss of his raiment, holds out a hand.

Nicolò takes it.

  
  



End file.
